


Play Maester

by SimplyLucia



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe, And Master Symon is back, Casterly Rock, Dungeon, F/M, Inspired by Art, Inspired by Kallielef, Play Doctor, Playing monsters and maidens, SanSan babies, Sandor and Sansa as children, Sewing, Sewing Lessons, This fic is silly as hell, Winterfell, pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2018-04-20 14:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4790402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SimplyLucia/pseuds/SimplyLucia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor Clegane squires for Tywin Lannister when he meets an adorable redhead accompanying her father and her family for a visit in Casterly Rock. </p><p>“Monsters-and-maidens is a game for babies. We should play maester instead". “I’ve never heard of this game,” Sansa replied.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by Kallielef's incredible art. It's one of the cutest SanSan pieces I ever saw. Here's the link:  
> http://asimplylucia.tumblr.com/post/120128909028/kallielefave-gifted-us-this-amazing-fanart
> 
> Characters belongs to GRRM. No one beta read this ficlet. This is pure fluff - unlike my other fics - and I don't know yet if I'll write a sequel or not. It depends on the feedback, I guess...

Sansa was pretty, although he’d never tell her she was; she was a whiner and she didn’t need to know he found her pretty, nor that he repeated to himself how pretty she was, until it didn’t make any sense. _Sansa is pretty Sansa is pretty Sansa is pretty… Pretty is Sansa._ Maybe the word ‘pretty’ and Sansa had appeared the same day. _Maybe ‘pretty’ has been invented for her._

At ten, Sandor was not pretty. Not even close. His scars made grown men cringe and they scared away children. He was too tall for his age and his feet were too large. Lord Tywin said he was _‘irascible’_. Sandor had had to ask his son Lord Tyrion what _‘irascible’_ meant and if people died of it. Lord Tyrion was good with words as he had read _all_ the books: the Imp had laughed and answered irascible persons lost their temper too quickly. Then he had added something about being good with the Starks and their children who were Lord Tywin’s guests.

The Stark boys were just brats who liked to fight but cried like babes when Sandor hit them with his wooden sword. Their redheaded sister was only six and she didn’t fight. She stood in a corner, observing his older brother and Sandor; when Robb bit the dust, she looked appalled and fought back tears, because her brother lied on the muddy ground. Then she raised her blue eyes to Sandor. “You hurt my brother!” she shouted reproachfully. _Whiny little girl._

“He said your lord father taught him swordfight and that it was better than being a squire. _I_ am a squire. _I_ win.”

Then something in her eyes changed and she didn’t seem to care about her brother’s scratches anymore. That was when Sandor realized something: in a six year-old girl’s eyes, being a squire or a knight didn’t make much difference as long you had a sword in hand. He felt suddenly older and very proud of himself.

It took him three more days to finally spend some time alone with the pretty girl from the North: three days looking for interesting presents to tame the little she-wolf - like blue jay feathers and shells from Lannisport; three days fighting his bad manners and sometimes yelling at her all the same because she was such a stupid little girl. She always came back to him though.

On the fourth day, he met Sansa near the kitchens where he had stolen some blueberries for her. He led her to the old dungeon where they could play monsters-and-maidens without being disturbed. On their way to the old dungeon, they ran into Lord Tyrion who told him once more to behave.

Playing monsters-and-maidens with her was amusing, even though she was so easy to catch, but holding a giggling little Sansa in his arms every now and then gave him a better idea.

“Monsters-and-maidens is a game for babies,” he announced. Sansa looked disappointed, but she didn’t dare protest. _You are a squire,_ she sometimes said reverently, her blue eyes shining. “We should play maester instead,” he went on.

“I’ve never heard of this game.”

“It’s simple. I’ll be the maester, you’ll be the sick lady.” The word _‘lady’_ was magic when playing with Sansa: she agreed to anything as long as she was playing the part of a _lady_.

“But I’m not sick,” she countered.

“Of course not, stupid. It’s only a game! So… you open your dress and I listen to your heart.”

A deep frown appeared on her forehead. “Is it going to hurt?”

“Don’t be such a baby,” he sighed. “I’m just listening to your heart. That’s all.”

Sansa pouted - like she always did before saying ‘yes’ and she finally agreed. He told himself it was the first time he had a playfellow, and a nice, pretty one at that; a smile pulled up the corners of his lips as he watched her undoing the laces on the front of her dress. Sandor had no idea it would take her so much time, though. Kneeling down, she fumbled with her laces. He wanted to help her, but he restrained himself from doing so; in addition to being taller than the other boys and scarred and _‘irascible’_ , he was all thumbs. That he had learned with Ser Kevan’s wife, who loved to shout at him. He didn’t want to ruin Sansa’s dress, let alone to frighten her.

Sansa’s cheeks were red when she finally looked up at him and chirped: “I’m ready!”

“You’re supposed to be ill!” he reminded her. The expanse of smooth, pale skin half hidden by auburn hair nonetheless made him forget how bad she was at feigning sickness.

The creaking of the door behind Sansa broke the spell. It was Lord Tyrion himself, who apparently wanted to make sure the precious daughter of his father’s host was alright. His mismatched eyes widened when he took in Sansa’s disheveled state.

“We were playing maester, Lord Tyrion, and I was the sick lady!” Sansa explained, grinning. She sounded proud as a peacock.

When Lord Tyrion’s mouth dangled open, Sandor knew instinctively he was in trouble: he scrambled to his feet and told himself there was no way the Imp could catch him in the uneven stairs of the old dungeon.

He shoved the Imp, ignored his shouting and hurtled down the stairs. As his heart beat faster, he barely heard the Imp’s outraged cry and Sansa’s questions about his sudden departure. The moment Lord Tywin would hear about this incident he would be on bread and water, or locked in his room, or perhaps even flogged a bit, but it didn’t matter. Sansa was pretty and she had let him _see her_.

 


	2. Come Into My Dungeon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locked up in the dungeon of Casterly Rock after playing maester with Sansa, Sandor receives a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by a lady like no other, Ladycyprus. Thanks a lot for your help!  
> Some of you asked for a sequel to Play Maester and here it is. This story was inspired by Kallielef’s amazing comic, imagining what would happen if a ten year-old Sandor met a six year-old Sansa...

****Water dripped from the ceiling, slowly, it’s wet sound punctuating the silence.

If the servant who brought him cold soup and stale bread didn’t steal his food, Sandor had been in this dungeon Lord Tywin called an _‘oubliette’_ for two long days already. Two days in the windowless cell where the venerable Tybolt Lannister used to keep his foes were enough for the young squire to know the rats’ habits inside out. There were at least four of them and the rodents waited until their uninvited guest was asleep to check the content of his wooden bowl and to sniff around him. _Will Lord Tywin keep me long enough to make friends with the rats? Who knows? Mayhap rats are kinder than men. Mayhap they’ll befriend me._ His thoughts turned to Sansa. The little girl was the reason he was locked in the dungeon, because he had convinced her to play maester with him. What was she doing now? Was she still in Casterly Rock? He realized he didn’t know how long the Starks and their party were staying in the Westerlands.

_‘‘No one gets away with undressing Lord Stark’s eldest daughter! You’d stay here as long as it takes you to repent your despicable conduct,”_ Lord Tywin had hissed two days ago as Sandor clung to the bars. The boy replayed the scene over and over in his mind. _What if I never repent because I didn’t force her to do anything and because I_ like _what I saw?_ The prospect of staying there _forever_ was scary. _Will I outlive the rats?_

The squeaking of the door hinges put an end to his reverie. His stomach didn’t complain of hunger, so unless he had lost his appetite - which was not likely - it couldn’t be the servant bringing food. _Lord Tywin?_ His heart beat faster. He scrambled to his feet and instinctively combed his hair over the burned side of his face to make himself as presentable as a ten year-old squire could be after a lengthy stay in a dungeon.

Soon enough he saw the reddish glow of a torch; eager to beg his lord’s forgiveness, he held onto the bars and turned his head towards the heavy door separating him from the rest of Casterly Rock. Oddly enough, he couldn’t see anyone.  It was as if Lord Tywin, instead of striding confidently like he usually did, stayed by the door and _hesitated_ . _Something’s amiss._ What if it wasn’t Lord Tywin, but his brother Kevan, sent here to flog him?

“I told you it’s here. There’s only one old dungeon!”

Sandor froze. Lord Tywin’s voice was not high-pitched, nor was his brother Kevan’s. _A girl?_

“But it’s so dark!” a second high-pitched voice protested.

Sandor would have recognized this voice without hesitation. _Sansa._ His heart skipped a beat.

“Now go, stupid! Take the torch and I’d stand guard,” the first voice went on.

“Don’t call me stupid, Septa Mordane says it’s not ladylike!”

The hinges squeaked again and the door closed with a slam. Sandor caught sight of the torch, then of the little girl who carried it. The eldest daughter of Eddard Stark was just like he remembered her: she smiled modestly, her big blue eyes shining. Someone had braided her red hair and he could spot the bright blue of a woolen dress underneath her fur-lined cloak.

“Good day, Sandor,” she chirped.

“Good day, my lady.” Although Lord Tywin would approve of him addressing Sansa this way, Sandor didn’t do it out of submissiveness. He knew Sansa enjoyed being treated like a lady. She needed to be received like a queen, she deserved silken cushions and lemon cakes. _Would that I could..._ For lack of a comfortable seat and fine food, he was determined to offer the only thing he had left that meant something to her: the good manners he had learned the hard way in Casterly Rock.

Her eyes widened with surprise and something akin to anxiety. “Why don’t you call me Sansa?”

“As you please, my lady. Sansa.”

The flickering light of the torch made him more conscious of his filthy surroundings; it was easy to stumble on the uneven beaten earth floor, the water dripping from the ceiling made the place damp and foul-smelling most likely. _These iron railings are enough to make any girl run away,_ he mused. Lowering his gaze, he noticed his grimy hands: dirty fingernails were not uncommon for a squire but the unidentified dark smears on his fingers and on the back of his hands revealed he had not washed in two days. All of a sudden, he imagined what his face looked like and felt ashamed. Filth didn’t make his scars look any better.

Sansa didn’t seem to bother. She observed everything, from the whitish marks left by salpeter on the stone walls to his dishevelled appearance. Never did she look disgusted, to his great surprise. After some time, she met his eyes again. “Did they hurt you, Sandor?” Her voice oozed concern.

He shrugged. “I didn’t get flogged.” _Not yet, anyway._

“Ooh!” One hand still holding the torch, the other hiding her pretty mouth, the little bird looked scandalized. “I’m so sorry they locked you up.”

“Why? You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m the one with the _despicable conduct_.” Repeating Lord Tywin’s words made him feel older and very mature.

The little girl shook her head vehemently. “You’re innocent, I told them! I tried to explain we were playing together, I said I should be punished too if you were locked up but my parents wouldn’t listen.”

Of course, it was more convenient for them to blame it on a squire who was older, came from a minor house and whose burns scared the shit out of most people. Did he resent Lord and Lady Stark? Probably. They protected their precious little girl and didn’t give a rat’s arse about him.

“Why did you come, anyway?” he hissed, shifting the blame to her. “If you care so much about my well-being, why didn’t you come earlier? I’ve been here for two days!” Deep down he knew she could have ignored him and kept playing with her siblings instead of visiting him, but he was unable to channel the anger growing inside him.

Tears welled up in Sansa’s eyes and he immediately wished he could take back his words. _I’m being unfair,_ he chided himself.

“My lord father lectured me like he never did before,” she said, fighting back tears, “and he told me I’d stay in my room for the next two days. This morning I was allowed to leave my room for the first time.”

So while he was befriending rats she was locked up too, in one of the cozy guests’ bedchambers. _She must have felt like time was passing slowly._

“I apologize,” he said, staring at a small depression in the beaten earth as if it was the most fascinating thing he had seen in awhile. “I didn’t know.” Then, after a silence: “Was it boring?”

“Of course it was! I missed our games.”

He chuckled at that but his laughter died when the door creaked open again. On the other side of the iron railings, Sansa cringed before heaving a sigh of relief. “Arya, you scared me!”

Arya was Sansa’s younger sister, a fearless, boyish creature who spent more time in the stables than in the company of high-born ladies. In the dull sphere of light provided by the torch, she grinned like an idiot, her eyes scanning the place.

“A true dungeon, like in Maester Luwin’s stories! It’s wonderful…” the little girl exclaimed. No matter how her older sister chided her for her insensitive remark, she kept marveling at what she saw. “You even have a wooden bowl for your food!” she said cheerfully, addressing Sandor this time. “How long have you been here?”

“Two days,” he answered, sullen as ever.

When he met her eyes again, she was chewing on a loose strand of hair. “You defeated my brother and you threw him to the ground. Then you convinced my sister to undress… You always disobey!” Her enthusiasm bordered on admiration and Sandor made a huge effort not to laugh.

Sansa rolled her eyes. Unaware of her sister’s reprobation, Arya walked to the iron railings which seemingly fascinated her. She gauged the distance between the thick iron bars, grabbed one and before her older sister could let out a shriek, she contorted herself to get on the other side.

“You’re going to get dirty!” Sansa scolded her but she didn’t listen.

Jumping up and down next to Sandor, Arya chanted: “Look at me! I’m in the dungeon, I’m Lord Tywin’s prisoner!”

“This is _not_ funny, Arya!” Sansa protested again. “Sandor can’t go through the bars like you did.”

“Maybe if he turns like this and-”

“Even if he managed to leave his cell… What do you think will happen if someone catches Sandor outside of it?”

Arya’s smile vanished at once and she gave Sandor a sheepish glance, then her eyes moved between him and her sister. “I’d better stand guard,” she whispered apologetically, wriggling out of the cell then leaving Sandor’s range of vision. The creaking of the door confirmed she was gone.

_Alone. Again._

“I apologize for my sister’s behavior,” Sansa sighed. She tiptoed to reach the nearest torch-holder and placed the torch on it, before turning to Sandor again. The little girl furrowed her brow. “Arya can be annoying sometimes. Father says I should forgive her because she’s so young.”

_So what, now?_

Silence stretched in the dungeon as Sansa kept her head lowered.

“What is it?” he heard himself ask. His mind raced and before she bored into his eyes again, he thought of all the things that could make the little bird sad. _Could it be that...? No, not so soon…_

“My family is leaving. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, we’ll take to the road and head North.” The quavering in her tone made him swallow hard. “My father allowed me to leave my bedroom so that I can take my leave from our hosts.”

A tightness he had never experienced before squeezed his heart. _So she came to say goodbye._ For a second, he wished she had stayed somewhere upstairs instead of visiting him to tell him she was going away. _People always leave me,_ he thought bitterly, giving his wooden bowl a kick. If it startled Sansa she didn’t let it show and she stepped forward. Tear tracks shone on her face as she seized the iron railings. Just like her little sister Arya earlier, she gauged the distance between the thick bars and popped her head in them.

“What in Seven Hells are you doing?”

“If Arya can go through the iron railings so can I. I’m small enough.”

She was now contorting herself to join him. “You’re going to get your dress dirty!” he warned her.

“Then I’ll wash it.”

Sandor’s mouth dangled open at that. The little bird had an answer to everything. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, she freed herself from the iron railings and almost fell in his arms. _Tiny and warm and smelling so good._ Just like he remembered from their games, before they got caught. His hands lingered more than necessary on her midsection but Sansa didn’t protest; she craned her neck to look at him in the eye.

“I’ve got good news, though,” she went on. “Arya heard something while she was playing near Lord Tywin’s solar. She shouldn’t have been there, as usual, but… She heard Lord Tywin say that he needed to discuss things with our father and that he planned to go on a trip to Winterfell and to stay there for a couple of weeks. You’re his squire: you’ll be coming on the trip. Unless you’re punished again.”

He felt a bit dizzy and blamed it on the warmth emanating from the little bird. “Can you promise me you will obey his orders and do your best not to be locked in the dungeon again?”

“I- I don’t know.” Promises weren’t his strong suit, especially when it came to obedience and good manners.

“I take it you don’t want to see me again…”

“Of course not! I mean, I _do_ want to see you again.” He bit what remained of his lower lip, feeling stupid and exposed. It was even worse than the day Ser Kevan’s wife had caught him and another squire on the battlements running naked on a dare. _Sansa didn’t need to know,_ a pesky little voice whispered in his head. He shrugged at that. _Now she knows. Is it so terrible?_

As a smile pulled the corners of Sansa’s lips, he felt his cheeks turn crimson. _Can she see my damn embarrassment in the dark?_

Sansa stood on tiptoe to say softly: “Do you promise to behave?”

He nodded.

“Good. I intend to see you soon in Winterfell, Sandor. Now lower yourself.”

Obeying orders had always been complicated for him; of course he listened to his late father’s command and now to Lord Tywin’s, but he always fought his nature to do so. Like a restive horse shrugging and neighing under his rider’s spurs, he usually felt his back stiffen before he decided himself to bow his head and to mumble “Yes, my lord”. Never had he thought obeying could be sweet or easy. He swallowed again as Sansa stopped him by pressing her fingers on his shoulders.

“Here. It should be alright.” In spite of her determined tone, she looked intimidated too, as her face came closer to his. She trembled the moment she planted a kiss on his cheek. Dumbfounded, Sandor shivered under her touch. Later that day he would realize he had not shied away from her kiss and that might be a victory over his bad manners. For now he stood gaping, wondering if it was a dream.

In the meanwhile, the little bird had left his side and escaped his cage. From the other side of the iron railings, she flashed a smile at him. “Promise to behave!” she reminded him.

“I promise not to get caught!” His remark made her laugh. “We’ll see each other soon, Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

Soon the ominous creaking of the door told him he was alone in the dungeon. He sat down on the beaten earth floor, a small tug at the corner of his mouth.

* * *

 

Lord Tywin never quite understood why his squire’s behavior had changed overnight; of course, he ascribed the young Clegane’s newfound submissiveness to his stay in the oubliette and he prided himself on being able to tame the troublemaker.

The day they crossed the drawbridge of Casterly Rock to head North, lord Tywin glanced over his shoulder, taking in the Lannister party riding in the crisp morning air. His eyes fell on Clegane’s youngest son. The boy used to fight with the other squires and more than once, Kevan had warned him he was useless. Now even Kevan admitted he could be helpful.

“Winterfell is four hundred leagues away!” he reminded the riders. “Let’s not waste a minute.”

Once again, he was surprised to notice that the squire born in Clegane’s Keep was more enthusiastic at the beginning of this long journey than his most faithful knights. The Warden of West smiled to himself; a couple of days in the dungeon had certainly made the squire more reasonable.


	3. Sewing Lessons For Squires

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And there she is…_ If it wasn’t for the red tendrils escaping from her hood he wouldn’t have recognized Sansa amongst the army of Northerners all clad in gray wool and furs. Her eyes met his, she smiled briefly, then her little sister Arya nudged her, suppressing a chuckle. Behind them stood an austere-looking woman Sandor identified as a septa. Her hands, large for a woman’s, rested on the girls’ shoulders - she was doubtlessly in charge of Stark daughters’ morality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited by a lovely person who goes by LadyCyprus: thank you so much for beta reading my fics even if her schedule is super busy, even when the draft is full of embarrassing mistakes...  
> Another chapter, in time for Valentine's Day!  
> You'll probably notice that it's a lot about Sandor himself this time; I hope you won't mind. There could be a 4th chapter but don't ask me when I'll be able to write it: my sincerest apologies for being unable to post on a regular basis. I do my best to juggle with work, personal life and fanfiction...

_Sansasansasansa_ , Sandor mumbled to himself, scanning the crowd of Northerners and suppressing a shudder.

“My balls are freezing,” Master Symon confessed in an undertone, a tiny cloud forming in the air as he spoke. The master-at-arms was standing next to him at the very end of the row, after the Lannister bannermen, far away from the Lannister family. “Balls freeze in this godsforsaken place, therefore these bloody Northerners _can’t_ have balls.”

Some cocksure bannerman elbowed him discreetly. The master-at-arms squared his shoulders and so did all the squires, including Sandor; the icy, treacherous wind tormented them despite their heavy cloaks, but they would stand proud and tall in Winterfell’s yard.

After a long trip through the Riverlands and the North, they had finally reached their destination and the drawbridge had come down for Lord Tywin and his men. Here they were now, facing the crowd of the Northerners who surrounded the Starks and their most loyal bannermen.

 _And there she is…_ If it wasn’t for the red tendrils escaping from her hood he wouldn’t have recognized Sansa amongst the army of Northerners all clad in gray wool and furs. Her eyes met his, she smiled briefly, then her little sister Arya nudged her, suppressing a chuckle. Behind them stood an austere-looking woman Sandor identified as a septa. Her hands, large for a woman’s, rested on the girls’ shoulders - she was doubtlessly in charge of Stark daughters’ morality.

Lord Eddard Stark greeted his guests, then Lord Tywin delivered his own speech. Sandor didn’t pay attention; his thoughts drifted back to the red-haired little girl. Would he spend time with Sansa while the Lannister party was in Winterfell? He doubted the Starks had pardoned him after he had played maester with their daughter. In fact, Lady Stark seemed to glare at him. What were the chances of being alone with Sansa if she had told the household about his outrageous conduct? The septa’s presence wouldn’t make things easier. His shoulders sagged.

* * *

Sandor was in the stables, giving Lord Tywin’s horse a rub-down, when he received the most surprising visit.

“I didn’t expect to see you after what you did to my sister,” someone chirruped behind him.

He spun on his heels and recognized Arya. “Good day, Northern brat. What in Seven Hells are you doing here?”

Arya shrugged. “Good day to you, Sandor Clegane. Just delivering my sister’s messages and trying to help. It’s hard to escape Septa Mordane’s watch, you know, unless you get yourself expelled from the sewing lesson.”

Sandor’s mouth dangled open. _She’s kind of brilliant sometimes. Not that I should tell her._ The little girl inched closer. “Sansa wants to see you...”

“... but?” _There’s always a ‘but’._

“But everyone here knows what you did and they’ll make sure you stay away from her.”

 _Of course._ Sandor heaved a sigh. “I thank you very much for your precious help, my lady.” He made as if he took off an invisible hat then bowed down before her. “Now get the hell out of here!”

Arya frowned deeply but she didn’t move.

“Get out of my sight!” he repeated, louder this time. For a heartbeat, he wondered what would happen if the master of horse, a sulky man by the name of Hullen, heard him giving orders to Lord Stark’s daughter. _I travelled hundreds of leagues north and I can’t see Sansa: I’m past caring_ , he thought.

“What if... I knew of a way for you to spend time with her?” the little girl said, defiant as ever.

 _Liar._ He shrugged and turned his back on her, ready to rub down his liege lord’s horse.

“You can’t spend time with Sansa unless you gain Septa Mordane’s trust,” the screechy voice went on.

“Septa Mordane?” he sneered, without even glancing back at her. While they were all in the yard, the woman looked hard at the Lannister party, as if she readied herself to dislike them. “Gaining the septa’s trust? This is the stupidest thing I ever heard!”

He resumed his task and when he turned around again, the little girl was gone.

* * *

Gaining the septa’s trust didn’t fill the young squire with enthusiasm - and this, like Lord Tyrion sometimes said, was ‘ _a vast underachievement’. Or did he say ‘underdevelopment’?_

For the first two days of their stay in Winterfell Sandor shrugged off Arya’s advice and he tried instead to get in touch with Sansa - to no avail. As soon as he would come closer to the little girl the septa would show up, preventing him from talking to his _dulcinea_ \- another word he had learned thanks to Tyrion.

On the third day he gave up. Arya was bloody silly but she might be right: he needed to make the septa trust him. The prospect sent shivers down his spine. Most adults disliked Sandor the second they saw him. He was too tall, too strong and too awkward to portray the perfect boy of ten whose cheeks people wanted to pinch affectionately: one of his cheeks, with its blackened flesh and its craters, wasn’t made for pinches anyway.

There were things about him adults liked though, on second thoughts. Gerion praised his strength and his skills, the stablemen in Casterly Rock said he knew more about horses than any other boy of his age. Lord Tywin himself had said once he was _dutiful_ and that sounded like a huge compliment. _There’s hope_ , he decided, because really, hope was all he had left.

He would offer Septa Mordane his help in his spare time and she would have to admit he was after all a _good boy_ . Mayhap not a _good boy_ but a boy whom Sansa could spend time with.

From this moment on, he found himself more often than not under the septa’s feet. Wherever she went she would run into him and he would offer his help to carry a heavy basket or to hold doors for her. The first time she flat-out refused his help. She underestimated his doggedness - like everyone else both in the Westerlands and in the North.

A couple of days after his first try, he spotted Septa Mordane in Winter town, standing at the end of a street. The woman’s eyes were fixed straight down. It was a sunny morning and the snow had turned to mire, threatening the hem of her skirts. Sandor could have told himself that he had enough time to run back to Winterfell, find Sansa and spend time with her while Septa Mordane did whatever she planned to do in Winter town. Instead, he strode towards the holy woman, greeted her, then offered to find the best way through the muddy streets of Winter town to make sure her skirts didn’t get dirty.

Septa Mordane frowned deeply. “Don’t you have other things to do, boy?”

Sandor assured her he had done his chores and was free to spend the afternoon as he pleased.

“And you want me to believe _it pleases_ _you_ to help an old woman on her way to buy chamomile and horehound?”

Despite his eager nod she kept frowning. The septa scanned her surroundings: the small folk came and went, indifferent to the slush. She took a sharp intake of breath, one hand picking up her skirts while her other hand rested on Sandor’s arm. The two of them wound their way up the street, Sandor sometimes leaping over potholes so that the woman’s feet remained on the safest path. Right before the next crossing, the septa tugged at his cloak: they had reached their destination. Her arm left his and she silently moved towards the door above which a wooden sign depicted a dandelion.

“I’ll wait for you here!” Sandor said before she disappeared inside.

Another sharp look, another frown. She didn’t trust him yet. He spent the next minutes observing the dandelion swinging in the breeze - the yellow flower heads looked almost silky but the leaves were roughly done. In the end, the woman walked out of the shop and froze when she saw him waiting in the middle of the street. She gazed at him with a hint of suspicion. _What? I told you I’d be here._ He nevertheless guided her all the way back to Winterfell, mentally taking note that few people stared at his burns and even fewer seemed disgusted.

* * *

The next day Sandor tried a bolder approach. Instead of pretending to run in the septa, he knocked at the door of the room where she gave the Stark girls their sewing lesson and bluntly asked if he could help.

Once more Septa Mordane’s brows knitted. “Help us? If this is how you expect to avoid doing your chores…”

“I’m not trying to avoid doing my chores!” he protested.

The woman’s eyes widened and that was when he realized his tone was harsher than he intended. Behind her, the room was empty and the only sound came from the logs that crackled in the fireplace.

Mordane bored into his eyes. “We both know why you’re being so obliging, young Clegane.” She folded her arms. “And we both know the place of a squire is not with the ladies, learning needlework. And what if people saw you here? The other squires would laugh at you!”

He was incensed. _Bloody septa, you don’t know what you’re talking about!_ How did she dare talk about people making fun of him? _As if she had the slightest idea about how it feels…_

“Are you so blind that you didn’t see my burns?” he asked, seething. “Squires already laugh at me: do you think spending time in here will change anything? It can’t be worse than it already is.”

Breathless, he stared at her. He waited for the slap or the kick in the arse he usually received when he addressed grown-ups this way. Surprisingly enough, none of that came. The septa’s eyes widened again, she swallowed hard. _Something isn’t quite right,_ he thought.

Footsteps made them both turn their head: the Stark girls were coming, Arya bouncing down the corridor and holding invisible reins as if she was on horseback and Sansa demurely walking behind, head high. A maid escorted them. As Arya rushed in the room without even glancing at them, Sansa stopped near the septa and the squire. Her blue eyes moved between them and she finally gave Sandor a quizzical look. Sansa didn’t pay attention to the maid who informed the septa she was going back to the kitchens unless her help was needed, but all of a sudden the little girl turned to Septa Mordane.

“What is going on?” she asked the older woman, standing shoulder to shoulder with Sandor.

Ignoring her question, Septa Mordane jutted her chin and bored into Sandor’s eyes. “So... you want to make yourself useful, boy? Come in; I am sure we will find you something to do.”

Much to Sandor’s surprise, the septa kept her promise. She made him untangle a ball of yarn Arya had played with during one of their previous lessons; he fetched scissors and thread for the girls. The septa even hesitatingly asked him to put an extra log in the fireplace. It was strange because his burns made people assume he was afraid of fire and fireplaces - they easily forgot that there wasn’t always someone to build a fire for him in Clegane’s Keep. He had had to overcome his fear or else he would have frozen to death in his father’s house. In comparison, the woman didn’t pity him. _The Others take me if it’s not a hell of a change._

There was something weird about her attitude though; she - briefly - smiled at him every time he obeyed. From time to time she would glance at him without saying a word, thoughtful. She didn’t seem to harbor any animosity toward him anymore. Was it possible that he had gained the septa’s trust? He wondered what Sansa thought of all this. The little girl smiled at him over the embroidery frame and sometimes her crooked grin told him the situation amused her.

Arya, on the contrary, didn’t smile. She sighed over and over, until Septa Mordane got on her feet and started lecturing her. Sansa beckoned Sandor, who brought his stool so that he could sit closer to her. She smelled of flowers.

“This is good,” the little girl whispered. She paused, made sure Mordane was too busy with Arya to notice them. “I think she likes you, Sandor.”

He bit his lip not to laugh at her remark. “She can’t like me, you silly girl: I played maester with you.”

Blushing, Sansa averted her eyes and for a heartbeat, the half-embroidered jonquils on her lap drew her attention. _So you finally understood that playing maester was not appropriate for a lady, even for a six year-old lady?_

“I don’t agree,” she chirped, boring into his eyes again. “She likes you. She wouldn’t let you stay here with me otherwise.” Her eyes misted suddenly. “I was so sad not to see you, Sandor. I missed you when we left Casterly Rock and I missed you even more when I saw you from afar, since you arrived in the North.”

His jaw dropped then his tongue moved helplessly in his mouth; not a single word escaped his lips and he felt stupid, perhaps the stupidest boy in the world. Sansa frowned ever so slightly at his silence and someone behind him cleared their throat. _The bloody septa!_

“Let me have a look at these daffodils, Sansa.”

He hurried back to the spot the woman had assigned him near the chest, while she praised Sansa’s embroidery skills. Arya stuck her tongue out at the septa’s back and for the first time Sandor understood why high-born girls were almost exclusively raised by septas: only a godly woman could put up with a brat like Sansa’s little sister.

* * *

On the next day Sandor headed back to the room where the girls had their sewing lesson. He knocked at the door and the septa opened.

“And of course you came,” she said, giving him a lopsided smile. “The girls will be here in a minute.”

She peeped into the corridor and, seeing no one was there, she motioned the boy inside, her hand hovering over his shoulder for a brief moment. Sandor strode to the stool he had sat on the day before. _Why is she being so... nice?_ he mused. People weren’t nice to him. People either mocked him because of his burns or didn’t care if he lived or died. Gerion Lannister and the master-at-arms, Master Symon, treated him decently, yes, but they weren’t _nice_ to him. Lord Tywin had been generous enough to offer him bed and board, yet Sandor knew his liege lord expected from his young squire the fiercest loyalty in exchange. The quick change in the godly woman’s attitude bewildered him... He nonetheless buried the thought away: Sansa was about to arrive and maybe this afternoon she’d kiss him. She had already kissed him in Casterly Rock’s dungeon. A smug smile played about his lips as he imagined his favorite redhead taking advantage of the septa’s distraction to plant a kiss on his good cheek. Mayhap on his lips, who knew? Suddenly the quiet room seemed much warmer.

The Starks still didn’t trust him, he knew it: the night before Lady Stark had glared at him in the great hall - again. Knowing this, the septa’s indulgence was all the more precious. He had to admit that, for once, Arya was right: gaining the septa’s trust had changed a lot.

A knock on the door made him bolt from his seat. _Sansasansasansa._ Mordane’s severe gaze freezed him on the spot.

“Sit down, boy. _I_ open the door.”

With a sigh he dragged his feet back to the stool. As soon as the septa opened the door the two little girls came in and a smile tugged Sandor’s half-burnt mouth. Beaming, Sansa headed to her chair and sat down demurely, before grabbing her embroidery frame. Spending time with a septa and a brat who did her best not to learn how to sew wasn’t what he expected from his stay in Winterfell; he didn’t care though. He’d gladly attend dancing lessons, and felt ready for charm school if it meant _this_.

_More time with Sansa. This is all I ask for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts if you feel so inclined :)


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